


On The Rooftops of London

by sherlocked221



Category: Mary Poppins (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Outdoor Sex, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 19:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17587109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: You are an upper class girl sick and tired of your overbearing parents. You have the habit of escaping late at night to see an old friend of yours.That old friend is local Leerie, Jack, a sweet man who likes to assist you in releasing your frustrations.





	On The Rooftops of London

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for any inaccuracies or anything.  
> I'm just a pervy girl who has a crush on a certain lamplighter.

The house is pitch black. The streets of London are half lit. It feels brighter out there, and strangely more desirable, than the cold, cluttered inside. Just about knowing where your coats hangs by the front door, and managing to get a hold of it, you wrap it around you and turn the door handle so that it doesn’t click as it opens. In fact, you hardly open it. You pry it open as though it’s unmovable and press yourself through the narrow gap.

Outside, you don’t yet take a breath of relief. You stand on the tips of your shoes on the top door step as though to take up as little space as possible. You then pull the door closed again in slow motion. You can’t let anyone hear you leave. At this time? Your mother would have a fit. Your father would lock you in your room. And it’s for that exact reason that you’ve got to get out tonight.

You just have to.

Carefully, you gaze up at the building you’ve just left. Directly above you is your parent’s bedroom, and though the curtain and blinds are closed, wound down, covering the window, you’re not taking any chances. On the off chance someone might’ve woken up that night, heard something or someone moving downstairs and peered out the window to check all is well on the streets, you have to check, have to wait. It takes a moment for you to be sure, but nothing has stirred, no one can see you. Finally, you hop down the steps and hurry down the road. It’s not until you’ve turned the corner that you can breathe.

The city air may not be the freshest, or the best for your young lungs, but it’s better than the stuffy, humid crap circulating in your home. You suck in a deep breath. Surely you shouldn’t feel so safe out here at night, wandering the streets like you are. You’re young, you’re pretty, you’re usually a good girl. You shouldn’t enjoy something so dangerous and rebellious, but you do. God, it’s refreshing, it’s exciting.

It’s exactly what you need.

You’re not walking aimlessly, though. Under the grey and indigo London sky, and the honey and gold coloured light from the lamps, you’re walking to meet someone. Actually, you’re paying quite close attention to the lamps, walking quite close to them. When you see one of the Leeries, up on their ladders, you slow down walking, you gaze up at them.

Funny. They used to be ‘Lamplighters’ to you. Invisible. Unimportant. Figures you’d rarely see because you didn’t go out late at night and didn’t pay attention early in the morning. That was back when you were younger, reasonably happy at home and following your parents around.

Now they’re Leeries. Lucky. Important. Some handsome, but that’s a matter of opinion. And now, you’re rebellious. You go out late at night to meet the working class. Not very becoming of a young girl like you. You can imagine the shock on your poor parent’s face if they knew. God, if they saw the things you got up to. It causes a dark, narrow smile on your lips.

“What ‘chyou smiling at?”

A voice escaped from the darkness. You probably weren’t paying attention. You didn’t see that you’ve passed a lamp, with a slender figure pressed up against a ladder. You even missed the bike with all the typical Leerie equipment attached, which rests on the Lamp pole. When you turn around, the figure is hanging off the lamp, gazing down at you. The lamp lights him from behind, casting shadow down his face. Even though he’s hidden, you know it’s him, the one you’ve been looking for. His voice is quite distinctive to you by now. You’ve met him quite a few times before, and have fondly listened to him when he’s spoken, so you could easily pick him out of a crowd.

“You.”

“Nah, you didn’t see me.”

“I mean I was thinking...”

“Some would say that’s dangerous.” He teases you, but kindly. He’s too sweet to really take a dig at you, even as a joke. Before you reply, he slides down the ladder.

He’s not really much taller than you. He’s not as slender as you’d think. A lot more built up. But he’s on his feet a lot, and does manual labour. His hands are slightly calloused and legs probably ache. Yet, you wouldn’t think he was tired at all. He strides up towards you, stopping just short of an embrace. You can now see him, his stubble dusted chin, kind, cheeky eyes, ever smiling lips and over his short hair is a flat cap. His clothes aren’t the cleanest, nor are his fingerless gloves, but you like that. You like the rough of the street, the slightly dishevelled look of him. That was what first attracted you to him.

It just so helped that he had the manner of a gentleman. If you dressed him up in crisp, clean clothes, a top hat, and leather gloves, your father would probably be glad if you brought him home. He would never know that you’d plucked a guy off the street. But that’s not why you like him so much. You’d love if your prim and proper Dad saw you talking to this man. Oh, he would die!

“It is dangerous,” You say, stepping against closer to him, “Thinking about you.” You reach out with your hand just a little. You don’t have to move it too much before you’re touching him, poking your fingers through the space between buttons of his waistcoat and trying to feel flesh. Still, another layer blocks you, an undershirt.

You stare into his handsome eyes. There’s a flicker of concern in them, as well as a slight desire. You’re sure. The intense expression is evidence of the latter at the very least, but there is a softer part that you’re never able to put your finger on. Why he gives you that look. It’s almost as though he’s questioning why you’re out here, whether this is what you really want.

And you’re sure it is.

“Is everyfin ok?” He asks you, standing quite unmoving. He knows well that if you’re out here, things aren’t too good for you. There’s something you’re escaping from.

You bow your head, your fingers curling around his shirt, comfortingly. He’s too good for you. Too sweet. You can hardly bear it when he drops the question without a proper answer and brings his hands up to your waist. With a guiding touch, he pulls you in for a hug. You can’t bear it, but you can’t bring yourself to tear away from him, because you just don’t want to. You really don’t.

He knows you’re not too fond of this sort of thing, dwelling on the past or the reasons for why you do something. He doesn’t like to see you unhappy. He just has to ask, to make sure you don’t want to talk about it, because on the off chance that you do, he’s listening. But in seeing that you don’t today, he breaks the hug and takes your wrist. He affords you a cheeky smile, which is impossibly infectious, especially because you know what he’s thinking. It’s the reason you came out here.

Leaving behind his bike, posed ladder and equipment, he tugs you off down a side street. You both break into a speedy walk, you dragging slightly behind only because you like the feeling of being pulled by him. You could easily keep up.

What you struggle to keep up with is when he jumps up onto a low wall. You see what is coming. If anyone else had walked down this street, even you a couple of months ago, you wouldn’t have seen anything remarkable. It’s nothing but a dull residential street. Not now, of course. Now, you see how the low wall around someone’s property is right next to the lip of a window, which is close enough to a canopy over a front door, and that’s close to a low extension. Basically, there’s steps leading all the way up onto the rooftops of the city. It makes you pause while he seems to have no qualms. He’s done this time and time again. Though you can see it, the buildings and structures look even more to him like stairs than they do to you.

He feels you hold back and turns around to face you.

“Oh don’t tell me you’re still too scared.” He chuckles lightly. You never feel like he’s making fun of you, or chiding you, or is disappointed in you. He always makes you feel as though he’s concerned about you.

“When I do it as often as you do, then you can ask me that.” You tell him. He gazes at you for a moment, before stepping down and wrapping an arm around your waist.

“You’ve done this before. What do I always tell you?”

“That you’ll catch me.”

“No,” he laughs, “That if you didn’t wear such silly shoes you wouldn’t feel so off balance.”

You shake your head, trying not to laugh.

“That’s it, then.” You tell him, standing back slightly and breaking your touch. You reach down and pull off your shoes, kicking them to the side of the road. When you look back at him, he looks wholly amused, while you give him a challenging stare. He doesn’t move for a moment, probably waiting for you to realise what a stupid idea it is to wander about the streets, or rooftops, barefoot, but you’ve already considered that, and you don’t care. You cock your head to the side. “Are we going?”

Knowing he can’t really tell you what do to, he sighs and takes your hand again. Although you may have a steadier balance now, you still rely a lot on him to heave you up. He says nothing, just ensures you get to his level, every time he advances. You’re not too keen on heights, that’s why you’re always nervous doing this, but you put yourself in his arms, and the rest of the world fades away. The construction of the street, the height of the buildings and flimsy structures you step on, nothing fazes you all that much.

Finally, both of you find yourself on a narrow beam between slanted houses. A few steps further and you’ve reached an office building with a square top. Around you, higher buildings dwarf that one, keeping you as hidden as you can be when standing atop the London skyline. He finds a chimney that blocks you both from at least half of the city, and quite breathless, you both take a seat on the ground.

Your feet are freezing, your socks dirtied. You’re glad it hasn’t been raining recently- which is something of a miracle for England- and it’s light enough for you to have seen and avoided puddles or wet patches on bricks and concrete. Your fingers inside woollen gloves are cold, and no matter how many times you rub your hands together, or ball them up into fists, you can’t get them warm. You decide to pull the gloves off and stuff them into your pockets, before covering your hands with the sleeves of your coat. Now, that’s better.

He sees you doing this. He’s relaxed, reclined back against the brick structure you sit under, half looking out at the scene below you both, half watching you. When he sees you trying to warm your hands, he chuckles lightly and sits up, taking your sleeve-covered stumps and fishing out your digits. His numb, half-covered fingers intertwine with yours as he begins to turn to face you. He gets up onto his knees and shuffles around your legs, which you open slightly so he can fit between them. He then leans down to kiss you. His kisses are always gentle at first, testing the waters. Not your waters, as yours are raging, but testing his, getting him used to kissing again, getting used to the idea of what you two were up there to do. He’s always unsure of himself at first. It’s you who coaxes him from that, you who steels his gentlemanly nature and twists it into what you crave. You’re the one who opens your legs wider, who lets go of one of his hands to pull up your skirt- though it may seem abhorrent in that kind of weather. It’s you who then pulls him closer, lowers him down until you can feel him against you. It’s you who kisses back with considerable force, leaving him to reciprocate, to fight back. Soon, he’s stolen his other hand from you and, with one, pins you to the wall. The other finds its way beneath your skirt and under your underwear. You hiss at the coldness prying your hot lips apart, but moan only a second later.

You two have been doing this a while. You can’t exactly remember when you first met him. It’s as though he’s been in your life forever, and has always been there when you needed it. Not in this way, though. You both were kids when you first met, though he is slightly older. This stuff came later, when you escaped home one night in a fit of rage at your _damn parents._ You were sick of their control, sick of being at home and feeling stuck in a cage. That night, your parents knew you had left. They had probably followed you halfway down the street, your Father no doubt bound further than that, but stopped and insisted that you’d be back, you had nowhere else to go.

They had been quite right on that fact. You had no idea where you were heading, but damned were they if they thought you would not give this whole running away thing a good go. You were determined not to go back that night, just to prove to them- even if you returned in the morning- that you didn’t need them. But as the night crawled on, and cold began to penetrate your clothes, you thought you were defeated.

That was before a familiar face wandered out of the shadows. Jack wondered what the hell you were doing out so late on your own. You were so angry you couldn’t tell him anything, you just begged him not to take you back home. He insisted that, as a friend, he would always do what you wished. In your rebellious state, there was one thing you wanted, one thing that Jack could give you. You had a lot of pent up frustration, and a bit of a crush on the young man. He would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t reciprocate that.

It’s now a sort of unspoken thing between you. Whenever you meet by chance, you don’t plan these things, you don’t really talk about them and you act as though you haven’t seen each other for ages. You’re both very good at that. But when it comes to actually meeting up, it’s as though you’ve never been cold to one another, never been just friendly, always been close. You fall into this so easily that neither of you need to say a word.

Save for Jack asking how you are. He has to do that, because he really cares about you. And God do you love him.

He takes a moment between kisses to breathe. You both are still breathless from the climb up there, and this isn’t exactly resting. He presses his forehead against yours. You can feel his breath against your face. You wait patiently to taste him again. But one time he does this, he takes a little longer. He focuses on something, his own hand, the one beneath your underwear. He draws it out and brings it to the waistband of his trousers. You, impatiently, assist him in unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his fly. Through his underwear you palm him, and delight in his gentle gasps in response. Finally, you bring out his member and let him push it, ever so gently, into you.

The feeling of being stretched is unlike any other you’ve experienced. It’s intoxicating, addictive. You get out a slightly louder groan and arch your back, as Jack stabilises himself with one hand on the wall, the other arm wound around your waist. Once in, he takes a moment to let you get used to it, and give himself a chance to breathe. You squirm in delight beneath him, having so little control of yourself. You’re both shivering from cold and pleasure. Your hands have knotted themselves in the waves of your skirt around you, both to keep warm and as something to hold. You’ve arched your neck back to reach up for a kiss, though Jack leaves you waiting, accidently teasing you.

“Alright?” he asks. You let out a very helpless sounding ‘yes.’

Courteously, for the city that sleeps beneath you both, you try to stay as silent as possible. You both muffle any cries either by kissing or burying your lips in the shoulders, sleeves or fabric of the other person, or clasp your hand over your mouths. Finally, when both of you aren’t sure you can hold it in any longer, you press up against one another and whimper curses, swears, each other’s names into the other person’s ears. When you climax, it’s all the more intense as it silently burns through you. Suddenly, neither of you are cold.

You lay for a moment, piled on top of one another, catching your breath and trying to quell the involuntary shivers causing your body to feel utterly weak. When you both decide to move, Jack heaves himself off you and sits by your side. You roll over onto your hip and curl up in his lap, covering both of you over with your dress. There’s been nights when this has been enough. You’ve both fallen asleep there and woken only when the bustling city jumps into consciousness. You both prefer to spend the night together, staying like this. You would even love it if you could spend the whole next day, and the next night, and the next day in each other’s arms. You couldn’t see ever tiring of it. Not even if you both had not had sex prior. You would be quite content just remaining with him forever.

But tonight, the cold seeps in too quickly. You could be faulted for that, as it is you who goes barefooted and gloveless, but it’s instead Jack who insists you have to get up.

“We’ll freeze. I can’t be responsible for you gettin’ sick. Your parent’s ‘ll ‘ave a fit.”

“They’ll have a fit anyway. I don’t want to go home.” You whine, feeling his body roll away from under you.

“You never do.” He stands up and extends one of his shaking hands to you. Knowing you have no choice, you take it. Your legs are pretty weak, but you can walk. You just hold onto him even tighter when he helps you down, back onto the street. There, you find your shoes, and just a narrow street away stands Jack’s bike, ladder and all that he left behind for you. Before you return to it, though, you sit down on the low wall surrounding one of the buildings and you pull of your torn socks, stuffing them into the empty pocket of your coat. You then slip on your shoes.

“I can’t let my parents see them.” You explain, whether you need to or not. Jack doesn’t say anything. He just holds out his hand for you again when you’re ready to leave.

You reach the lamp a minute later, and both of you helplessly stand under it, facing each other. Being back on the street feels so encased, so closed off. You felt literally on top of the world a moment ago. Now you’re back in the maze of London, trying to escape your enclosure. Too bad you’re about to willingly return to it.

Jack looks as sad as you feel. He gazes into your eyes, thinking wistfully about something. You do the same. These nights always go so fast. Even if you were to sleep with him on that roof, the morning would come all too quickly.

Someday, you hope it won’t be like that. But for now, all you can do it pull Jack in, not for a kiss, but for a hug, both of you half lit by the golden haze emitted from one of his lamps.

  



End file.
